Ganymede (37 page)

“These are the forts, ain’t that right?” Cly asked, poking at a spot in the river just past a bend that kinked sharply north and to the east.

“Fort Saint Philip on the north bank, and Fort Jackson on the southern one,” Deaderick told him. “Fully manned, mostly by Confederates.”

“Not Texians?”

“Naw. Texas lets them keep their forts as a matter of show. Makes it look more like a group effort, rather than an occupation. It’s bullshit, and everybody knows it.”

“So the Rebs keep the forts in order to keep their pride. Got it. Are they dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough to steer clear of them, as much as we’re able. They don’t have anything much in the water that we’ll have to bypass—no charges or anything like that. They can’t clog up the waterway with bombs. There are too many merchant ships coming and going to make it worth their trouble. But they do have lookouts aplenty keeping an eye on everyone who passes by—and anyone who goes steaming upriver.”

Fang made a sign. Cly saw it out of the corner of his eye.

Gatekeepers.

“Gatekeepers,” the captain said aloud, since he doubted anyone else but Houjin could understand the message. “That’s all they are.”

“Heavily armed gatekeepers. They’ve got cannon all over the place, and antiaircraft, too.”

Rucker Little noted, “There’s nothing keeping the antiaircraft from becoming antiwatercraft. All they have to do is tip the things on their fulcrum, brace them, and aim them at the waves. A buddy of mine used to work for them, doing maintenance on machine parts and the like. He says they have a pair of antiaircraft shooters mounted on each of the fort’s two river-facing towers, and both of them have been modified so they can shoot up or down.”

“Good to know,” Kirby Troost said.

“We’ll stay out of their way. Out of their sight, anyway. Let me ask you something,” Cly said to Deaderick. “Is there any good reason we have to go right past them? They’re guarding the way to the ocean, but only if we stay in the river.”

“This thing won’t grow legs and crawl, Captain.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. These canals, here and here.” He tapped at them. “Are they deep enough to hold us?”

Deaderick rubbed at his chin. “
May
be. Not that one,” he indicated a sketched-in line at Empire. “But this one might—the one just past Port Sulphur.”

Houjin perked up. “Isn’t that where we landed? When we first came into town? Those Texians made us set down there instead of landing at Barataria.”

“That’s right,” Cly told him.

Rucker sniffed. “Doesn’t surprise me. Texians trying to chase off perfectly nice pirates.”

“They thought the Lafittes were hiding this thing.” Deaderick cocked a thumb at
Ganymede
. “We’d actually asked for their help, a few months ago, and they were interested in assisting us, but for a fee we couldn’t afford—and we couldn’t get the Union to spring for it. I suppose someone passed our request along. Some spies, somewhere.”

“The bayou’s chock-full of ’em,” Rucker agreed. “Just as well we couldn’t take them up on it.”

Kirby Troost stared at the map, baffled. “I don’t mind telling you, it blows my mind how little help you’re getting from the Federals. Here you are, trying to hand them a piece of hardware like this, and they just leave you hanging for the details.”

Deaderick made a small grimace and said, “Eh, you know how it goes. They aren’t sure
Ganymede
’s worth the investment, and we can’t prove it until we show it to them. Funny thing is, the Rebs believe it. We wouldn’t have any trouble convincing them that the ship is valuable—they’re scared to death of it.”

Rucker said, “And they know what it could do, in theory. They were the ones who commissioned the first ones, the
Hunley
, the
Pioneer
, and the rest. They know what a difference a craft like this could make in the war, and God knows they’re barely hanging in there these days. They can’t afford to let the Yankees to get this thing, take it apart, and figure out how to make more of them.”

“You think they could do that?” Cly asked.

“Sure. Within a few months, if they hire a few of us,” he replied, indicating himself, Mumler, and Anderson Worth. “For that matter, if it comes to it … we might just head back North and make a case ourselves. The three of us, plus a couple of others—we might be able to sit down and draw up our own plans. We know it better than anybody else.”

Deaderick Early agreed, but with reservations. “Of course, if you boys did that … it’d be another year or two at soonest before you had something working. No, this is our best bet for ending things fast.” He glared down at the map as if he’d rather be looking at something else. “We’ve had trouble enough convincing those damn fools we know our heads from a hole in the ground. But we’ll show them. Once they get a look at the firepower on this thing, and they watch it in action … once they see what it can do…” His voice trailed off, then returned again, stronger. “At any rate, Port Sulphur. That’s the closest dock to Barataria, so it stands to reason that that’s where they diverted traffic. Do you think they’re still doing it? Guiding people away from the big island?”

Deaderick said, “Probably not. They didn’t find the ship and they’ve sent their extra men home, so my guess is that they’ve mostly lost interest in what goes on over there.”

“I don’t like to work on guesses.” Cly frowned. “But it looks like we’re stuck between a number of uncertainties. The forts will be dangerous to sneak past. The canal at Port Sulphur might be safer, but it might be crawling with Texians.”

Deaderick folded his arms, wincing as his shoulder shifted. “Might be, but I doubt it. Last word in from the city has it that there’s just a residual force on staff at the bay, cleaning up and sorting out what’s worth keeping and what’s not.”

“You think they’ll set up a post there? A fort or something, where the pirates used to camp?” Troost asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe they’ll scavenge for anything they can make use of, and let the place fall to ruin.”

Cly shook his head. “It won’t fall to ruin. The pirates will take it back. That’s their hometown, their home nation. The only place they have with any history to it. They’ll be back for it.”

“You say that like you’ve given it some thought yourself,” said Norman Somers, who was back to assist with the big trucks and the winch that would send the
Ganymede
swinging over into the river. “I’d be pleased to help you, if it means one less square of Louisiana that Texas gets to keep.”

“Can’t say it didn’t occur to me. Can’t say I wouldn’t like to see it happen.”

Kirby Troost stuck a match in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “There’s no time like the present, if you want it back. Or that’s the word in the sky.”

“How would you know?” asked Rucker.

“I got ears all over the place, that’s how. Pirates are going to grab for it, pretty soon.”

“Who?” Cly asked, interested against his better judgment. “Somebody arranging an operation?”

“Supposedly Henry Shanks is leading point, or that’s how it’s falling into place. He’s got One-Eye Chuck Waverly coming in from the Atlantic coast, and Jimmy Garcia swinging up from the Yucatán. Rumor has it even Sweet Bang Lee is interested in raising some hell. He’s on his way from California with Brigadier Betty and their son.”

The captain breathed, “Jesus Christ Almighty. That’s one hell of a crowd. Ol’ Hank Shanks is in the lead, is he?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“I can’t imagine anyone else so big that others would follow him. Nobody but Lafitte, and he’s dead—and so are half his grandchildren, or rotting in jail.”

Deaderick uncrossed his arms and scratched at a sore spot where a bullet wound was healing, and itching. “I’d like to see the pirates reestablish themselves, myself. They took better care of me than they had to, when I was tore up during the raid. But fellows, I believe the conversation has gotten off course again.”

Cly said, “You’re right, you’re right.” Then he rattled off the coordinates they’d agreed to—the ones about twenty miles into the Gulf, where Admiral Herman Partridge was waiting on the warship
Valiant
 … until morning, and no longer.

“How long do you think this will take?” Houjin asked. “It’s a long way, isn’t it? How far are we going?”

“All told? Sixty, maybe seventy miles. And you’ll be right behind us with more fuel, won’t you?” he asked Deaderick and Rucker.

“Right on top of you,” Rucker confirmed. “Literally, sometimes. We’re sneaking the diesel in sealed tubs covered in shrimping nets. And we’ve got a hose all strapped up and ready to deploy.”

“But we can’t do it while you’re underwater. You’ll have to break surface for us to refuel you. That’ll be the most dangerous part,” Deaderick said with deepening seriousness. “One of the things we’re hoping to change on future models of this thing—is we’d like to see it take on more fuel without breaching.”

“I sure as hell hope they
do
keep us around, so we can make some suggestions on those future models,” piped up Wallace Mumler, who’d been leaning against a wall and smoking quietly as the conversation carried on.

Chester Fishwick, who’d come in late but now stood beside Wallace, agreed. “I’d like the chance to work on the ships they’ll build after this one. I’m all full up on ideas—ways they could make it better. Ways it could run cleaner, and longer.”

Cly lifted his head to direct his next question at the pair of them. “Speaking of running longer, how far can we expect to get on one full tank?”

No one answered right away, but Chester took a stab at a reply. “Twenty-five or thirty miles, or that’s our best guess. It’s hard to say, once you’re out in the current. It’ll help you, but we don’t know how much. Maybe the river will take you an extra mile; maybe she’ll take you an extra ten. Keep your eye on the fuel gauge, that’s my advice. And give us a signal before you’re ready for more—when you’re down to a couple miles’ worth of juice, we’ll find a spot for you to pull aside real quiet and give you another dose.”

“Got it.”

Once more they went over the plan, working in the new particulars—a decided-upon detour at Port Sulphur, establishing estimated stopping points where refueling might be easiest, and alternative possibilities in case of Texians or Rebs. And when it all was pinned down at last, the smallest detail confirmed, all the men took deep breaths and stood up straight. They cracked their backs and their necks, stiff from having leaned over too long, staring at the assortment of maps.

They stretched their legs and gazed anxiously at the canvas-covered lump of the
Ganymede
.

Then Norman Somers and Rucker Little climbed into the big driving machines and started the engines. Deaderick Early and Wallace Mumler opened the double doors at the back side of the warehouse, while the remaining members of the party, except for Cly and his crew, went to stations outside to look out for the trouble that everyone secretly expected.

But none came.

Intermittent whistles like birdcalls—prearranged for meaning—chirped through the now-full night, declaring that all was clear and the time was now.

Hurry. Move it. Out of the warehouse.

Down to the water, where the big winch waited, having been moved from the bayou to the edge of the river.… There, it had been concealed with saw grass and reeds, and a tuft of false tree canopy that disguised it at a distance.

Such a disguise was the best they could do. If anyone got close, the illusion would not hold. It could never hide something so large, and so strange. The whole assortment of nervous men prayed that anyone who took more than a second look would assume it was be overgrown dock equipment, left over from the days when people more regularly fished, and fixed boats, and moved cargo from the small bend called New Sarpy.

First gear was always the hardest when towing something so huge and heavy. The trucks strained against their load, and strained to pull together in perfect time like a pair of mechanical oxen. They moved, crawling inches at a time, but gaining traction and turf; and the conjoined platforms that moved the craft hauled it forward.

Now the watchers kept their eyes peeled even harder. They scanned using spyglasses that could tell them only so much in the darkness—but alerted them to lanterns, lights, and pedestrians out on the main road. They peered and squinted in every direction, calling soft hoots and the croaks of frogs that all was clear.

Do it now. Get it out of sight. Get it to the winch.

Only a few yards separated the warehouse exit from the camouflaged winch, so it took only minutes to move
Ganymede
from one stopping point to the next. It took only a few terrified clicks of Wallace Mumler’s watch for the craft to be affixed to the hooks at the top of the winch, and a few more for the dark-clothed men to move like shadows performing a dance, hitching the craft and swinging it over the water on a long, straining arm that could scarcely hold its weight.

Its bottom hit the water with a splash that sloshed a wave onto shore, soaking the legs of the men who stood nearby. They’d picked this place partly because there, the river was deeper than it looked, and would be an easy spot to launch from.